the amaryllises are dying–three red petals,
each a wilting blood spilled from memory’s white gown.
the unrequited ring. a watch wound only for the hands
to return to the hungriest hour. thirty nights pierced,
each with a new sharpening. i must remember
to ask what it is like to speak those words–the absurdity
of a crow pecking through sealed lips to cry out
the last howl. i must remember to ask,
what organ contains sentiment? & where does memory
go–is it the still chest which rises & stays, a body impossible
& made for forgetting? & where might the heart have to be
that it refuses to kick the blood out into the veined streets?
& is the heart worth its weight in gold? & if anything is true,
where is the tragic baptism? where is the basin deep enough
for washing this kind of sorrow? does the body transform
into sopping sponge or olive wood? does memory become
its own crucifixion?
how many arrows must pierce the blood before
it is laced with gold?